


In Which Athos Moves Into An Attic

by Sodafly



Series: there’s an endless road to re-discover [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Divorce, Gen, Relationships to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:04:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodafly/pseuds/Sodafly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos’ greatest loves are his coffee, his wine and his cats and if d’Artagnan touches any of the first two then he might just have to rip his arm off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Athos Moves Into An Attic

There’s a vicious storm the night he returns, rain lashing down diagonally and battering so hard against the window Aramis worries the water will leak through. They hadn’t lived there long; six months at the most, they had only just dismantled the last of the boxes and hidden them away. But they had made sure he knew where to find them, their address written into the lines of irregular contact they had exchanged over the past few years, those lines of contact only decreasing the further he got into both married and civilian life.  
  


He slips softly back into their lives with a simple buzz of the intercom system, drenched from the heavy downpour and shivering on Porthos’ doorstep. He’s a dreadful sight, a shadow of the man they had last seen long ago. They let him in; get him out of the black suit and into Porthos’ clothes that drown his too small body. A blanket is wrapped tightly round his shoulders, a cup of coffee cradled in shaking fingers to help sober him up.  
  


“My brother is dead” Athos says, emotionless and numb, explaining his attire and state of being in one swoop. “And I’m getting a divorce”  
  


He can’t look at them, staring pointedly at the coffee table. Droplets of water are dripping from the strands of his hair and when Aramis attempts to run fingers through it, remembering from days gone by how to comfort the man, Athos flinches away.  
  


“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know where else to go” Athos admits with a weak shrug.  
  


“I don’t know why you’re apologizing, you’ve always been welcome here” Porthos says, having hung the suit over the door to dry. Athos looks like he wants to protest, to bring up all the things that have happened over the years, but Aramis stops him with a hand on the shoulder.  
  


“Come on, you’ll feel better in the morning.” He probably won’t but it’s worth a shot “You can stay as long as you need as long as you don’t mind sleeping on the couch”  
  


Athos doesn’t mind, they’ve all slept in unusual places in uncomfortable positions, he’s just happy to have a roof over his head and a familiar face to look at. The couch is old and battered, the cushions smelling of old coffee stains and worn cotton, and when the lights are turned out, the lights of Paris can be seen through the slip between the curtains.  
  


Aramis and Porthos share an apartment to the West of the city, their small wage packets clubbing together to pay the rent for a tiny two bedroom flat, with a kitchenette and a bathroom that can barely fit one person in at a time. But it’s homely, the unusual mixture of the two spilling from their bedrooms to merge in the main living space, and just like everywhere Aramis and Porthos go, Athos feels comforted by their presence etched into every surface. The wall above the TV has photographs taped to the plaster, grubby Polaroid’s with others that have been printed onto photographic paper. Athos can see a younger happier version of himself smiling back.  
  


For the first time in weeks, he sleeps fully and deeply, endorsed by a mixture of exhaustion and intoxication knocking him almost unconscious. He wakes to the smell of pastries, the fresh scent of butter and nuts and he’s almost flattered that they still remember his favourite foods, and that they’ve gone to the trouble. Porthos is pottering about the kitchenette, the morning radio playing some upbeat pop song through crackling speakers.  
  


“Good morning sleeping beauty, how are we feeling today?” Aramis greets with a smile, coming through the door with a handful of mail. Athos grunts. He’s never been a morning person. If anything, it makes Aramis’ smile widen, as he tosses the morning paper at the couch and goes to put coffee on to filter. “Peachy as always I see”  
  


Athos scowls at him, Porthos’ bellowing laugh fills the apartment and it’s like he had never left.  
  


*

Three years ago, at the age of twenty-three, Athos stood neatly laced as always, with a discharge notice in his hands. The bullet wound that had injured his shoulder still twinges with pain, the stitches holding it closed puckering the skin and itching every time he moves. It’s a wound that will one day develop into a white star burst of a scar, but for now, it’s the wound that has gotten him discharged from military service and it hurts like nothing has before.  
  


Milady picks him up and they drive in silence. It would be the first time during their relationship that Athos would be permanently at home rather than abroad in some war torn country, and in hindsight, that is probably what acted as the catalyst for the decline of their marriage. But for now, Milady is sympathetic to his wounded pride as well as his wounded body. There are photos from the early days, from their wedding, from their first anniversary two months prior, all in glass frames hanging on the walls of their stylish apartment.  
  


“Now nothing can come between us” Milady says softly against his skin that night and he smiles, the rush of happiness undeniable as his heart quickens with love for her. It didn’t sound like such a bad idea at the time, in fact, it sounded like heaven.  
  


*

“So what are you two doing with yourselves these days?” Athos asks once they’re gathered around the coffee table, his head feeling like it’s been stuffed with straw. Porthos sits in the armchair that has stuffing oozing out the armrest whilst Aramis spreads himself out on the rug. The coffee has filtered and now fills old mugs, empty plates dotting the coffee table. Athos feels a twinge of shame over how he had failed to keep in touch, just as he regretted the last three years entirely.

 

“Oh you know, just trying to get by. Porthos enrolled in a few online classes and we both work at a bistro set up by a few other veterans. The pays not great but it’s a nice place to work.” says Aramis, filling out part of the newspaper crossword with a pencil.

 

“If you’re in need of work, I’m pretty sure if you speak to Treville he’ll be able to help you out. I think we’re in need of another waiter or a manger or something” Porthos adds, kicking his feet up on to the table, jogging Aramis and sending a line of graphite across the page.

 

Athos nods. Although the wealthy inheritance from his mother dying a few years back, and the money his recently deceased brother had left him, kept him comfortable, it would be foolish to rely upon it. Besides, he is a man of routine and a job would high tide the waves of boredom.

 

“Since when were you able to cook?” Athos says pointedly at Aramis, who from what he can remember, was only able to cook traditional Spanish dishes but somehow managed to burn toast on a regular basis. He wasn’t the type to work in the kitchens.

 

Aramis smile, an elastic headband pushing his hair off his face so his wide grin is clearly visible.

 

“I’ve been learning and I’m surprisingly good at it thank you very much. Besides, Porthos is the main cook.”

 

“You should come. It’ll be like old time again, just minus the gunfire and the possibility of death”  Athos hums in agreement, setting down the coffee mug and resuming his position lying on his back on the sofa. For now, he’s content to stare up at the ceiling.

 

*

 

The three of them met six years ago, when they were all fresh, bright eyed new recruits into the French military. For a twenty-year-old Athos, it was traditional for members of his family to serve time in the military, and with his fencing career down the drain, it was really the last option.  He met Aramis and Porthos, both aged eighteen, on the first training exercise, and they hadn’t parted since.  Porthos had been playing cards with some of the other recruits; during the short downtime they had after a tiring day of training. Porthos had attracted quite the crowd around his table and was winning a clean sweep when his opponent let out a loud accusation,

 

“You’re cheating!”

 

“I assure you, I am being nothing but a gentleman, it is not my fault you are bad at cards.” Porthos says calmly, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Liar” The tempers are running high, a group of men filled with adrenaline and testosterone who were yet to develop any sense of brotherhood. The two men jumped up, ready for a brawl, only to be held back. Athos holding back Porthos and pushing him against the wall, as Aramis pulled the other man aside. The four of them had been scolded terribly for the childish action and gambling of any kind had been banded from the common room.

 

“Remind me to buy you two a drink when we’re on leave” Porthos says, clapping both Athos and Aramis on the backs. By the time their two-week leave before being deployed came about, they all owed each other drinks.

 

*

 

The rain is still pouring outside, turning the lights outside into flared blotches on the windowpane, the dark grey clouds forming the perfect pathetic fallacy. They watch daytime quiz shows that Aramis plays along to with pen and paper in his lap, sitting cross-legged on the couch besides Athos. Porthos sits in the kitchen with his laptop and textbook, using the best proportion of slow Sundays to study. 

 

They order takeout, all of Athos’ pre-marriage habits returning like second nature. Instead of ordering a dish to share, he orders Thai noodles for one and ignores the sting in delivers to his gut. The wine Aramis cracks open dulls the pain anyhow. 

 

 It’s surprising just how easy he slips into the spaces in their lives, as if a special Athos shaped hole had been left empty all this time, and despite everything, he manages to ooze back into the mould with ease. Aramis and Porthos don’t ask questions about what happened, they understand Athos’ nature and will be ready to listen when he eventually does decide to tell them. But despite everything, of course there have been minor changes to their lives.

 

Porthos has given up smoking and now walks with a nicotine patch stuck to his bicep, reading and studying with a renewed vigour of a man who has been starved of knowledge. Aramis’ hair is longer and is awake until the early hours of the morning, restless and in constant need of distraction. But Aramis still sings loudly in the shower in the morning, filling the apartment with slightly off keynotes and citrus scent. And Porthos still cracks his knuckles whilst making breakfast, tapping his foot to whatever music is playing.

 

For his part, Athos is quieter than what he was, not as quick to smile and hardly ever laughs. He’s struck by the early days of grief and bitter heartbreak. He still winces when he pulls his clothes on in the morning, out of habit of feeling the phantom tightness of his old shoulder wound. He still wears button downs and neglects to trim his beard, still takes his coffee black with no sugar, still hates morning chat shows and remaining idle.

 

So on Monday, when Aramis and Porthos make their way to work to prep for the lunch hours, Athos parts ways with them at the buildings door, walking down the opposite end of the street with rolled up sleeves and some Nirvana song playing loudly through his headphones. The rain has finally given way to cold sunshine, the pavement still wet with puddles. He takes the Metro heading south, hating the closed in space and gritting his teeth throughout. It wasn’t so much the lack of space, more then sensation of being so close to strangers that freaked him out. Athos had never been one for touching even with the people he knew well, and he was even less so now.

 

Where he’s heading is a complete guess, he has no idea if she still works there, just goes on the hope she still does. A cover letter is folded into an envelope addressed to Treville is slotted into his satchel, but before he can go to deliver it, he figures he should pay her a visit.

 

The tiny old haberdashery shop still stands exactly where he remembers, although it has a new sign above the door and new flowers in the window. However, the small bell still rings when the door opens and the inside layout is still the same. Rows upon rows of ribbon, cotton threads, buttons and sewing equipment is piled on shelves, garments that are in need of repairing or adjusting hanging upon a rail behind the counter.

 

“One moment _s'il vous plait_ ”  A woman calls, feet thumbing down wooden stairs.

 

Constance Bonacieux appears in the doorway behind the counter, a young woman of twenty-three with thick brown hair and a pincushion strapped to her wrist. Her long fingers are used to sewing and playing piano, able to thread a needle quickly and with a steady hand. Her father had been one of the senior officers of the regiment and for a time she had lived amongst them in the barracks. She helped her mother dish out their meals in the canteen and occasionally sewed up the holes in their trousers for a euro. She was a charming woman who had somehow taken a shining to Athos for reasons he couldn’t comprehend.

 

“Well I’ll be; of all the people I thought would be standing in my shop, you Athos, was not the first” She says not unkindly, rushing over with a smile to wrap her arms around him. Taken aback, Athos can only bring himself not to cringe at the bodily contact, and raises a hand to press against the centre of her shoulders.

 

“Oh sorry, I completely forgot about that” Constance says, hastily drawing back even if she remains within inches of him. The momentary slip up does nothing to dash her joyful air “It’s just been so long. How are you?”

 

“I’ve been better,” He confesses, rubbing the back of his neck. Her head tilts to the side, she ushers him through to the backroom and sits him at an oval garden table and makes peppermint tea to share.

 

“I don’t want to disturb you from your work” He insists, turning the floral bone china cup so the handle faces to the right.

 

“Nonsense, I’ve pricked my finger way too many time in the past five minutes so I think it’s time to take a break” She leaves out the fact that she hasn’t seen him since his wedding. She’s pouring the tea when he notices the diamond on her finger.

 

“That’s new,” He says, raising his eyebrows at the ring. She glances down at it.

 

“Oh that, it’ been there for a good year now”

 

“And the date?”

 

“Not set, in fact, I have no idea when we’re thinking of getting married, he insists we wait a little longer” In all his years, the one thing Athos had learnt was not to keep the woman one loved waiting too long. He raises his teacup in toast nonetheless.

 

“Congratulations” She hums in return, not matching the typical excitement many engaged women had when facing the prospects of marriage.

 

“And you? What has become of your dearest Anne?” The name makes him flinch; having not used it since declaring it would probably be best if they separated.

 

“Milady” He says with emphasis upon the other name she is known to go by “Milady and I are getting a divorce. We argued bitterly after my brother’s death and shortly before the funeral she changed the locks to our apartment.”

 

“Oh Athos.” The sympathy doesn’t feel patronising, like it did whenever anyone else reacted the same way to the news. They knew he had loved her, but they did not know how terribly it had gone wrong. He shrugs, still not comfortable talking about the details, he doubts he ever will be.

 

“Where are you staying?”

 

“With Aramis and Porthos, their sofa is surprisingly comfortable.”

 

“Well if you ever need anything you know where to find me. And I’ll see if there are any rooms spare in the house my father keeps, I know you like to have your own space.” 

 

“You truly are a kindness Constance,” he says with a small smile. She rolls her eyes.

 

“Don’t go getting sentimental on me now. That’s not the Athos I know” If he was still the Athos she knew, he would have laughed, but despite the change, it still brings a smile to his face.

 

*

 

Treville is always happy to see him, beams with pride when he opens the door to see Athos standing in the tiny courtyard round the back of the building. Treville lives in the two stories above the bistro restaurant and even from the separate hallway, Athos can still smell the delicious traditional French food that is being cooked inside the kitchen, knowing that it has been lovingly crafted by Porthos with Aramis no doubt chopping vegetables.

 

“The boys mentioned you might show up here. Come inside Athos, for it is always a pleasure to see you.” Treville greets, holding the door open for him and standing aside to clear the doorway.

 

Athos suspects that Aramis and Porthos may have mentioned something about his situation, because Treville breezes over the subject of the wife and the home and the brother and gets straight to the point.

 

“We are in need of a front of house manager to ease the load, we’ve become surprisingly popular over the past year. Of course, it’ll be an evening job four days a week.” 

 

Athos will take whatever he can get, no matter the hours or the pay, he needs the distraction and order. He takes it straight away, only asking when he can get to work. Treville smiles, saying something along the lines of ‘there’s the solider I always knew’ and pats him on the back so hard it has him jerking forward. He starts work the next day.

 

*

 

“All I’m trying to say is that it’s good to have you back in Paris. The countryside never suited Athos anyway; I could not imagine him being content to grow wine grapes or farm goats. Besides, the man can’t drive a car to save his life, how the hell is he supposed to get around”

 

“I could ride a bike”

 

The suggestion has Aramis laughing so hard he has to clutch his stomach, and Athos has to admit, he would look ridiculous on a peddle bike. The three of them are in a bar on Friday evening after a long shift at the bistro. Aramis is already halfway towards being drunk, Athos following behind as a close second, and Porthos resigns himself to the fact he’ll probably be the one to make sure they get home safely. They’re referring mainly to the country estate Athos grew up on and lived for a few months following his mother’s death a year ago, but there’s a subtle reference to the plans he and Milday had of one day moving to a villa in the county side. A dream that is no longer, and Athos would sooner die than return home ever again.

 

“I must admit I did enjoy the quiet”

 

“You can find quiet wherever you go. Even the city can be quiet when you know where to find it” Aramis counters, draining the last of his glass and asking who wants another round.

 

“How are you feeling?” Porthos asks once Aramis has stumble off towards the bar, a gentle hand lying on Athos’ forearm.

 

“Not drunk enough” Athos replies, knowing that Porthos had noticed the way he pours brandy into his morning coffee and takes wine with almost every meal. Porthos notices those kinds of things.

 

“Athos”

 

“I am fine Porthos, in fact I’m grateful for all the things you and Aramis have done for me”

 

“You know that isn’t what I meant.” Athos sighs and places his head on his folded arms, mumbling into the tabletop.

 

“There’s nothing to talk about. I have an appointment with my lawyer in a few weeks, we’ll draft up the divorce contract and we’ll be legally separated by the beginning of next month. It should be simple, it’s not like we have children to argue over.”

 

Athos allows Porthos to place an arm around his shoulder.

 

“You know you don’t have to keep it all inside right, you can talk to us.”

 

Athos nods, rolling his head on the table and maybe he’s drunker than he thought. At that moment Aramis arrives back with their drinks and a tray of shots, grinning as he always does as he slide into his chair.

 

“Alright, get your shots gentlemen.” He announces holding up the tiny glass of blue liquid “I would like to purpose a toast. To reunited friends, and all the adventures the world has in store for us”

 

The three glasses clink together before being downed in one, Porthos’ face screwing up at the horrible taste. Aramis bashes the tale with his palm as the alcohol travels down his throat to burn his stomach. With a sigh he sits back

 

“So Athos, allow me to enlighten you on all the partners I’ve had that you, unfortunately, were unable to meet. Let’s start with Adele, a politician’s daughter…”

 

*

 

“Do none of you have any control?” Constance says with hands on her hips, receiving a chorus of groans in reply. They’re sitting in the kitchenette, nursing hangovers and wondering how the hell they had made it home last night. When the buzzer had rang out through the apartment, they had all cringed at the blaring noise tearing through their eardrum. But they were happy enough to let Constance into the building.

 

“Good morning to you to” Aramis drawls, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

 

“What brings the marvellous Constance to our door this morning?” Porthos asks, leaning back against the oven.

 

“I’m actually here to see Athos,” She says, ruffling Athos’ hair as she passes the armchair he’s curled up in. Aramis fakes being wounded, curving his hand over his heart. “There’s a room free if you want it. I mean, it’s a small attic room but it’s something”

 

“Attempting to lure our man away, I thought you were an engaged woman” Aramis teases, rubbing his arm when Constance thumps him.

 

“Just because it’s not you Aramis, don’t be jealous.”

 

“Seriously though Athos, would you like the room?” Athos glances over the back of the armchair, looking from Constance to Porthos and Aramis. It’s a conflicting decision because whilst he feels like he’s intruding into their space, he doesn’t want it to look like he’s trying to get away. But he likes to have his own space as much as he loves them.

 

“We’ll help you move in,” Porthos pipes up, as if reading Athos’ mind. He smiles, small enough that it’s almost a secret, and accepts the offer.

 

*

 

The apartment is less like an apartment and more like two small rooms stuck together with a tiny bathroom somehow conjoined to the side.  It’s stuffed into the attic of a three-story building, with a ceiling slopping downwards and steep stairs and a skylight. It’s perfect for Athos, who has very few belongings and even fewer items of furniture. They find a second hand sofa and order a bed online, Constance donates an old table and chairs from the shop and they manage to salvage old kitchen items from the bistro. He’ll eventually have more possessions, when the divorce has been finalised and a contract details what belongs to who, but for now this will have to do.

 

“Contrary to popular belief, I am a man who actually reads the instructions rather than delving right in.” Porthos says, nose buried in the instruction manual for the bed as Athos neatly lines up all the bolts, screws and panels in straight lines. Aramis, who’s restlessness has him walking circles around the room, would rather just start making the damn thing just because he needs to do something with his hands.

 

“I think there’s a cabinet that needs assembling if you want something to do” Porthos says, gesturing at the doorway to the main room. Aramis thinks about it for a second before bounding off to assemble the cabinet and most likely help Constance stack plates in the kitchen.

 

It only takes a few hours to get everything in place, tackling the task with military precision. Aramis has taken the liberty to take a few of the photos from his wall and stick them up on Athos’ instead, pictures of the three of them in their military uniforms, photos of them on holiday in Berlin four years ago, photos of them in Spain the year before that. There’s nothing to bring about bad memories, and plenty of space to pin up the memories that will come in the future. 

 

They eat dinner and Constance tells Athos that if there is anything he needs, her apartment in on the bottom floor. The apartment fills with laughter and Porthos’ loud voice and Athos thinks that he might just be able to make a home here. And when they leave, he lies back on his new bed with sheets he’s burrowed from Aramis, and thinks that maybe, he’s found his place of quiet amongst the city.

 

**

 

The cat comes a week later when he’s helping to put up shelves in Constance’s shop. It’s a lump of white fur sat in a cardboard box lined with a blanket and it’s been hisses at Constance ever since she brought it through the door.

 

“He was a friends, but they couldn’t look after it anymore so I said I’d take him off their hands. But now I’m seriously regretting that decision.”

 

“Does he have a name?” Athos inquires peering over her shoulder at the box. The Persian cat is still hissing away and sections of his fur are in need of brushing.

 

“Not that I know of. The cat belonged to a recently deceased relative of theirs”

 

Athos hums, comes out from behind Constance to gingerly reach into the box and scratch the cat behind the ears. The hissing eventually gives way to a content purring as Athos works his fingers through the fur. Constance raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“Impressive, no one has been able to go near him without being scratched.”

 

Athos doesn’t reply, too content to give the cat all the attention it could want. The farms that surrounded the country house he grew up in used to have cats, and they would stray into the garden sometimes. Athos and his brother had always been big fans of cats even if they were never allowed to have them. He had owned one briefly, but it ran away when he moved in with Milady, not that she would have allowed him to keep in anyway, she was allergic after all. 

 

“You can keep him if you like, I won’t be able to look after him anyway so he’ll just go to the shelter” Constance says with a smile.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Sure” She pats his shoulder in passing “You could do with the company”

 

Although he doesn’t name the cat, it lives comfortably in the apartment. He brushes its fur and buys cat food when getting his groceries. It’s not difficult, and provides an instant sense of satisfaction, a comfort when he weaves in and out of his legs and curls up next to him on the couch.

 

The kitten comes as an impulse buy. It’s a tiny Russian Blue kitten that is being sold out of a box by someone in the neighbourhood. He buys it on the way home from work, due to some complete lapse of sanity. He takes it to the vet where it checks out all clear and the two cats appear to get along perfectly fine.

 

 “That cat is evil I swear” Aramis proclaims after getting scratched more times than he can count by the fluffy Persian, who is fond of sitting in high places and attacking anyone who isn’t Athos from the prime vantage point.

 

“He reminds me of Richelieu” Porthos comments when, having half mauled Aramis, the cat goes and plonks himself in Athos’ lap and demands instant attention. “You know, viscous and demanding and somehow has everyone wound around his fingers…or in this case paws.”

 

Aramis laughs loudly, sucking the scratch on his thumb. Richelieu was one of their commanding officers, overly strict and feared by the entire regiment; none of them wished to be on his bad side and so kept their dislike for the man quiet. Athos scowled at the reference, but unfortunately, the name stuck. 

 

*

At two in the morning on Thursday, Athos is woken up by a constant banging followed by a buzzing of the intercom system. Having always been a light sleeper when he hasn’t been drinking, he blinks awake, feeling the warmth of the cats curled up one by his foot and the other at the back of his knee. He hopes it’s just one of the people in the two other apartments and soon it’ll go away, but it doesn’t.

 

Grumbling, Athos rolls unceremoniously out of bed, finding a t-shirt that he needs to give back to Porthos and pulling it over his naked torso. The hem comes to rest mid thigh, and he really can’t be bothered to find jeans to pull over his the boxers he’s been asleep in. Key in hand, he stumbles down the steps, barely awake enough to navigate down the two sets of stairs to the ground floor.

 

Fumbling with the lock, he yanks open the front door and glares.

 

“What are you doing?” Athos snaps, staring down at the tall, lanky boy pressing the buzzer. He’s got a duffle back slung over one shoulder, a battered brown jacket and slightly torn jeans, a black beanie pulled over his dark brown hair.

 

“I’m here to see Constance, we spoke online, she said I could sleep on her couch for a few days. Is she in?” Is the answer, the boy on the doorstep peering around Athos’ shoulders into the corridor.

 

“She’s out. If you wanted her you should have come at a time what wasn’t two in the morning.” Normally Athos’ temper isn’t as bad as this, but he’s tired and not overly fond of being woken up.

 

“It wasn’t intentional” The boy protests, scowling at Athos like the whole thing is his fault. The light patter of rain outside is growing heavier by the second and it’s only a matter of time until the heavens open. “Can you help me or not?”

 

Not liking the tone of voice, Athos has half a mind just to close the door there and then and forget about the whole thing. But he’s never been a cruel man, and he doesn’t know if it’s the rain, or the fact the boy looks like he can’t be much older than eighteen, but he sighs.

 

“Look, I’ll let you sleep on my couch and in the morning you can go talk to Constance, she’d never forgive me if she found out I let you go wandering off in the rain” The boy looks like he wants to hug Athos, but decides not to, grinning like a fool as he tries to get through the front door, only to be barred by Athos’ arm across the frame.

 

“But first, your name?”

 

“I’m d’Artagnan, I’ve recently come to Paris from the country”

 

Athos merely nods, lets his arm fall to his side. He trudges back up the stairs to his attic rooms, allowing d’Artagnan to scurry behind him. A mild attempt to made to make the main room look presentable, but he’s too tired to really care, just moves everything from the sofa to the low set table and picks up a few stray bottles. He’s never been a very messy person anyway.  

          

“And what is your name, may I ask?” d’Artagnan calls as Athos goes in search of a pillow and spare blanket. He still has very few possessions but manages to find something he burrowed from Aramis when he first moved in.

 

“Athos. Now go to sleep, and don’t be alarmed if you hear movement in the night, it’s only the cats.”

 

Before d’Artagnan can reply, Athos has already shut the door of his bedroom behind him. He crawls back into bed, being careful not to disturb one of the cats although one of them meows with discontent when Athos nudges it with his toes. Normally he would not be so easy allowing a stranger in his home, but there’s nothing here to steal, he doesn’t even own a TV, and if the boy wants to be stupid then Athos has three years of military experience and almost ten years experience in fencing, so he’s pretty sure he could beat him with a stick if it came to that.

 

Also Constance would probably hand d’Artagnan his ass on a plate if he caused any trouble.

 

In the morning, Athos wakes with the Russian Blue kitten lying in the crook of his arm and Richelieu is nowhere in sight. The alarm has just gone off, but he’s slept through the majority of it again, so he’s already cut into ten minutes of his prep time. There are some military habits one loses when they leave, and waking up on time is one of them.

 

D’Artagnan is still curled up on the sofa, breathing softly with his hand curled into a fist near his cheek. His long brown hair is splayed across his face and his jaw is in need of shaving. Richelieu is perched on top of the slightly ajar bathroom door, but hops onto the kitchen cabinet and then down onto the floor when Athos enters the main room.

 

“Get up, I need to get ready for work.” Athos says, shaking d’Artagnan’s shoulder. D’Artagnan jumps awake, almost hitting Athos before he gains his senses. “You can have breakfast and if Constance isn’t already back, she should be back within two hours.”

 

“Thank you Monsieur” d’Artagnan says, voice thick with sleep.

 

Athos hums, putting on bread to toast and coffee to filter before tending to his cats, filling the plastic bowls with food. The morning routine is systematic and not even the abstract presence of a guest will throw him off course. D’Artagnan manages to fix himself breakfast when Athos is in the bathroom, tracing the course Athos had taken around the kitchen to get toast, but wisely decides not to touch any of the coffee. Athos’ greatest loves are his coffee, his wine and his cats and if d’Artagnan touches any of the first two then he might just have to rip his arm off.

 

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Athos asks in a moment of conscience, after d’Artagnan knocks on Constance’s door only to receive no answer.

 

“Yeah I’ll be fine, as you said, she’ll be back soon” d’Artagnan assures, sliding down the wall to sit opposite the door. Athos nods stiffly, unsure on what to do, so instead opts to makes a quick exist.

 

*

 

“A Monsieur d’Artagnan came to see you, decided to wake the building up at two in the morning” Athos says when Constance walks through the bistro doors at the end of lunch service. They’re closed for the afternoon to clean and prep for evening service, but for now they’re all sat at one of the larger tables eating freshly cooked lunch.

 

“I know, I’ve let him into my apartment and thank you for letting him sleep on your sofa” Constance says pulling out a chair to sit between Athos and Aramis.

 

“D’Artagnan? Sounds interesting” Aramis comments around a mouthful of food, feeling particular proud of the _Flamiche_ he’s made. 

 

“D’Artagnan is a young man who has come from Gascony hoping to study in Paris, and he was in need of somewhere cheap to live.” Constance explains, unwavering under Aramis’ eyebrow raise.

 

“And this D’Artagnan, is he a gentlemen of good looks?”

 

“However” Constance continues, ignoring Aramis completely “With Athos moving in, we no longer have a room going spare so…”

 

“No” Athos cuts her off.

 

“Come on Athos, he’ll stay with me most of the time, he’ll just live with you when my fiancé is around and it’ll only be until he finds somewhere to stay”

 

“Or I could just move back in with Aramis and Porthos”

 

“But we just moved you out”

 

“And we only just go our living room back in order” Porthos teases.

 

“He won’t be too much hassle I promise”

 

Athos sighs, stabbing his food with more force than necessary  “Fine”

 

Constance beams, patting Athos’ shoulder. “Thank you”

 

A silence passes between them as Porthos helps himself to a second portion, praising Aramis for his well cooked meal and Aramis beams with pride like a finely groomed peacock fanning its tail.  They dish Constance up a plate despite her protest and pour her a glass of the white wine going spare from the previous night. The food, as always, is delicious.

 

*

 

D’Artagnan, as Athos had suspected, is just breaking the cusp of adulthood at eighteen, although he insist that his nineteenth birthday is in a few months. He’s talkative as he lugs his bag back into the main room of the apartment and reassembles his bed. It’s ten at night, and Athos returned home with an arm full of shopping bags to find d’Artagnan sitting in front of _his_ door this time.

 

“My father always said Paris was a wonderful city. I think he wanted to move here but it was easier to stay in the countryside, we had a vineyard after all and he didn’t really know how to do anything else.” d’Artagnan jabbers away, content to tell Athos his life story before the night is through. Surprisingly, Athos finds himself listening intently, having never been one to half listen when being spoken to.

 

“So, after my father died I decided I should follow through with his encouragements. Discover France as it were, although I’m not really sure what I want to do.”

 

“I’m sorry” Athos says, breaking through the stream of consciousness as d’Artagnan finally sits down having sorted out his belongings. “About your father that is”

 

“Oh” d’Artagnan says softly, his smile falling around the edges and Athos can spot all the signs of grief, having woken up to see them in the mirror every morning “It’s okay, it’s just one of those things isn’t it.”

 

Athos nods, glancing down at Richelieu who is rubbing up against the back of his leg. He offers out his wine, but is declined, shrugging and pouring a generous helping for himself into a mug. He places the bottle back where it belongs instead of taking it with him to the couch, acutely aware that he shouldn’t get blindly drunk with a man who is still a stranger in his own home. He sits on the floor by the very low set window, willingly letting the Russian Blue kitten bound into his lap.

 

“Do they have names?” d’Artagnan asks, gesturing to the kitten.

 

“Not officially. Although my friends have a running joke that the Persian is named Richelieu, a joke which I’m sure they’ll no doubt enlighten you to when you eventually meet them” Because he will meet them as they are all intrinsically linked and Aramis was already curious enough.

 

“A friend of mine used to have cats” d’Artagnan says, launching into another tale “They used to breed them and they had a cat just like that one who used to follow them around everywhere. They called it Blue”

 

Richelieu has padded over from on top of the kitchen cabinet, having his fill of observing the scene, and curling up next to d’Artagnan’s leg. To Athos’ surprise, the cat even lets d’Artagnan run gentle fingers through his fur and the boy has to be magic of something because that has never happened before.

 

“You can call him that if you like, I’ve never been fond of naming them anyway” Names implied attachment, and the last thing he was attached to left him to walk around Paris aimlessly in the rain after a funeral. D’Artagnan beams at the idea.

 

“Really?”

 

“Why not” Athos shrugs, downing the remaining half of the mug in one go. He rises, joints clicking into place and the cats follow in his footsteps as he pads off to bed without another word. He guesses, there will be no getting rid of the boy now.

 

*

 

Two days later, when Athos is coming through the front door for the building, dripping wet having forgotten his umbrella, Constance intercepts him. She must have been waiting for him to come back, because the door to her apartment opens and her arm shots out to grasp his coat just as he places a foot on the first stair.

 

“I have another favour to ask of you” She says, and by the expression on her face, Athos knows he’s done for.

 

And that’s how d’Artagnan ends up working part time at the bistro.

 

Treville had taken Athos’ vouch into accord and offered a place as a part time waiter mainly for the busy evening hours. Aramis is delighted and Porthos really can’t believe it and Athos is seriously questioning his taste in women, as so far they’ve all managed to get him wrapped around their fingers.

 

“So d’Artagnan, Athos has rather rudely neglected to say anything about you, but Miss Constance seems to speak highly of you.” Aramis say, leaning through the serving hatch to watch from the kitchen as d’Artagnan ties his apron. There is still half an hour before the evening serving hours start.

 

D’Artagnan smiles.

 

“Thank you Monsieur….”

 

“Aramis” They clasp hand through the serving hatch, Aramis leaning so far over the counter he almost topples over it. “Tell me more about yourself young d’Artagnan, I am curious.”

 

And with the slightest prompting d’Artagnan launches into the story he had told Athos a few nights back. Aramis listens enraptured and Athos recognizes that almost predatory look that spread across his face, resisting the urge to roll his eyes because really, his friend needs to learn about self-control sometime.

 

“And what do you plan to do with yourself now you find yourself in Parisian streets?” Aramis inquires when the story is told, leaning his cheek on the palm of his hand. D’Artagnan shrugs a little sheepishly.

 

“I’m afraid to say I am unsure. I’ve considered enrolling into the university, but I have no idea what I would like to study.”

 

“Well you are young, there is still time for you to figure out what direction you wish to take. But for now, your direction leads you to waiting tables, which may I add is a very noble profession.” Aramis says with a wink, disappearing back through the serving hatch and into the kitchen when Porthos yells his name.  D’Artagnan stares after him like a boy already possessed by his charm and Athos wonders how the hell Aramis manages it.

 

“Come on” Athos says, lips pulling into a tiny smirk as d’Artagnan snaps out of his trance  “We have tables to wait”.

 

The bistro itself is a pleasant place to work, even with Athos’ wavering people skills. It’s a small, traditional place tucked away from the main hub of tourist attractions and activity, making it a perfect place for locals to eat when they didn’t want to be surrounded by foreign tongues. The menu only has a grand total of ten mains dishes and an even smaller selection of desserts and starters, but it made it easier to remember the exact details and kept their costs lower. It didn’t take long for the place to fill with chatter, gentle guitar playing over the speakers and tea lights on the tables.

 

It was better for them, less noisy, but still had that sense of brotherhood to make it easier to complete the transaction from military to civilian life. Even for Aramis, who still spooks at sudden loud noises, working in the kitchen was still better for him than working in some cold office space. Here they were surrounded by a small group of friends, and the collection tub on the pay counter reeled in spare change for charities supporting military troops, so they were still helping in what little way they could.

 

D’Artagnan took to it like a fish to water, weaving gracefully in and out of the narrow spaces between the tables like he had been doing it all his life. His natural boyish charm working well with the older local who seemed to enjoy having someone new to look at.  He picks up Athos’ minimal instructions quickly due to his sound intuition.

 

At the end of servicing hours, the two of them clean up front of house whilst Aramis and Porthos clean the kitchen, wiping down surfaces and sweeping the floor, making sure everything is back in order for the next day.

 

“Hey d’Artagnan where are you going?” Porthos calls out when the three of them are sat at one of the tables with bread and a bottle of red wine. D’Artagnan has shrugged on his jacket and slung his backpack over one shoulder, waving goodbye to them, but he stops with his hand on the door.

 

“Going home?” He hazards, brow furrowing. Porthos laughs and Aramis grins, pulling out the chair next to him.

 

“Nonsense, come and have a drink, I’m sure Constance can wait.”  D’Artagnan’s hand drops from the door and he comes over to them, taking the chair between Aramis and Porthos, who leans behind him to get a spare glass from the counter top. Athos grabs the bottle and pours a generous helping into it before topping up his own, ignoring Porthos’ frown.

 

“It’s not like that, Constance is just a friend” D’Artagnan says, gingerly sipping the wine and glancing over when Aramis drapes an arm round the back of his chair.

 

“And she is a wonderful friend at that, make sure to treat her kindly”

 

“We are well aware that she is engaged even if we have never met the man”

 

“And yet” Aramis adds pinching d’Artagnan’s cheek “It must be so hard to resist this baby face”

 

D’Artagnan’s face breaks into a smile despite himself, batting away Aramis’ hand.            

“Aramis has trouble resisting any face that looks at him long enough” Porthos counters, receiving a shocked gasp and a kick under the table.

 

“I assure you it’s the other way around, people just can’t resist _my_ face. It’s a curse really”

 

“Yes it must be such a burden” Athos adds sarcastically, Porthos clapping his shoulder.

 

“Oh so now Athos decides he wants to be a funny man. Hell must have frozen over early.”

 

“Given the weather it wouldn’t surprise me” Aramis puts his head in his hands at the remark, grumbling about his friends and their terrible sense of humour.

 

“Well d’Artagnan,” Porthos says, raising a glass “I’m not quite sure what you think you’ve gotten yourself into, but welcome to the club”

 

*

 

Luckily the rain has finally let up as Athos trudges home, the sun setting behind him as he carries a suitcase and a duffle back filled with his clothes. It had been murder lugging it on and off the metro and by the time he nears his building, his shoulder has gone dead. Constance is sat out on the tiny front porch, curled in a lawn chair with a blanket wrapped around her and a book in hand. There’s a bottle of white wine on the floor next to the chair leg.

 

“Going somewhere?” She inquires; looking at the bags Athos drops on the ground in favour of picking up the wine bottle.

 

“Quite the opposite” Athos mumbles, inspecting the label with a critical eye “In fact I’m moving more of my stuff in”

 

“How was the appointment with the divorce lawyers?” Constance asks, sliding a bookmark between the pages of her book, having remembered what today was.

 

“Very civil. She and I glared at each other across the table, and as always she dominated the discussion whilst I just nodded along like an idiot. However, at least I have all my clothes back” He can now return the items burrowed from Porthos.

 

It had been strange, briefly returning back to the apartment that was their home to get his personal belongings. The other items that they had bought together would be sorted in their next meeting, but stepping through the doorway to what was their art deco apartment had been surreal, and a little nauseating. Now that he knew where her end of the money had come from, he didn’t want to look at that place ever again.

 

“This is a fine vintage, good choice” Athos adds, dropping into the second lawn chair next to Constance and drinking from the bottle when she allows it.

 

“Thank you, I picked it out myself. You can finish it if you want”

 

 They sit in silence, Athos cradling the quarter full bottle to his chest and taking large mouthfuls.

 

“It’s strange how things turn out” He says, hugging his knees to his chest and resting his chin on his arm. Constance looks at him, eyes soft around the edges.

 

“I guess it is. But sometimes it’s for the best” Athos hums, only half believing her. He drains the last of the wine and leans back into the chair with a sigh. It’s the first warming evening in month the sun it casting amber across the pavement, although it won’t last long.

 

“We’ll see” Athos sighs and for the first time in weeks, feels content when he lets his eyes slide shut.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to
> 
> [Kim](http://tommisonspubictopiary.tumblr.com/) for discussing the matters of the cats and giving me pretty much the entire idea for a fluffy persian cat called Richelieu
> 
> [raouldehadleyfraser](http://raouldehadleyfraser.tumblr.com/) for beta reading
> 
> and pretty much everyone on tumblr who have been really supportive. second part of the series will be added soon but in the mean time, you can come say hi on [tumblr ](http://athoses.tumblr.com/)if you would like


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